Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  Paston, shorter and wider than Enric, with a small, protruding gut around his middle (despite two weeks of hard training and a forced march), began to circle the other man calmly, holding his spear with two hands in front of him in a defensive stance. Enric, on the other hand, was obviously angered, baring his filed-down teeth as he brandished his own weapon. In the first tentative pass, Hafgan, his arms folded—overseeing the fight like Traisen, the god of war—noted at least six mistakes. Footwork, grip, weapon-handling. To him, this was two children play-fighting in slow-motion, wielding fake weapons. But he remained silent as the two made another awkward pass. And then a third.

  Paston, despite his paunch, was the faster of the two, sidestepping and even rolling, once, to dodge an attack. But Enric was superior when it came to handling his spear, and much stronger. He wore away at Paston’s stamina with quick, jabbing attacks, forcing him to clumsily dance around the ring. Paston, to his credit, managed several controlled ripostes, one of which narrowly missed Enric’s skull. Ultimately, though, the outcome was made apparent as the fighters became more engaged.

  Enric pressed his attack, sensing Paston’s faltering energy. Paston blocked the wide swipe, holding his spear with both hands, and the two were locked together, padded wood against padded wood, newly-formed sore muscles straining to their peaks. Suddenly, Enric fell back and inexpertly kicked, nearly losing his balance as his foot collided with the stomach of the off-balance Paston. The kick lacked force, but was enough to stun the smaller man. Enric cocked back his spear to finish the fight, aiming squarely for Paston’s exposed head, and swung.

  His spear was sent spinning through the air, end over end.

  Hafgan lowered the wooden sword that he had picked up in a hurry upon seeing that Enric was lost in battle madness. He easily could have killed or brain-crippled Paston, and Hafgan had had little choice but to intervene. Enric turned to face him, body heaving with his fierce breathing. For a tense moment, it seemed that he would attack. Hafgan crossed his arms nonchalantly, waiting for the man to calm. After a minute, Enric straightened himself and unclenched his fists.

  “Perhaps there is the makings of a man within you yet. Well-fought, soldier,” said Hafgan with sincerity in his face, looking Enric directly in his eyes.

  The next morning, when the men went through their usual exercises, Enric sweated as much as anybody, and didn’t utter a word of complaint during the spear drills.

  ---

  “–still lagging behind General Krast’s forces by several days,” said Captain Ressig, scratching at his eyepatch.

  “That impetuous fool was to wait for us at the border!” snapped Captain Jeret, his pompous voice filling the commandeered farmhouse like the crowing of a self-important cockerel calling for a mate when none were interested.

  “Hold your tongue, Jeret! General Krast outranks you, if you haven’t forgotten.” General Sigmund Fitra was resting his head in one hand, tired and overwrought. Perhaps because he had no business being a general or leading men, in Hafgan’s learned opinion.

  But, as it turned out, when an army had no way to provision itself on short notice, and one of the most powerful merchant lords in the city offered to sponsor the campaign, that man ended up having an inordinate say in the appointments of said army. And when that merchant lord was Principal Darius de Trenton, he assigned someone who was wholly his creature. Hence, Sigmund Fitra had become a general of the armies of Rostane.

  It was not going well.

  “My apologies, Lord General,” said Captain Jeret, rancor barely masked behind a chipped and rapidly peeling facade of respect. Apparently, this golden officer either had a personal grudge against General Fitra or was upset because he’d himself been passed over for promotion. Regardless, tensions were high when the two of them were in a room together. Which was daily.

  Luckily, the quartermaster intervened before this situation could escalate, though his choice of topic was less than tactful.

  “Sir, the reported desertion count for today is fifty-four, with forty-nine of those being conscripts and the remainder being career soldiers,” interjected Quartermaster Polk.

  “Fucking deserters! Why would career soldiers possibly wish to desert? This… this is their fucking job!” The general slammed his four-fingered fist into the hard oaken table and then immediately grasped it in pain, which seemed to only make him angrier.

  “Lord General, most of these men signed up for the military during peacetime. They never planned or expected to fight. Some others have family and friends in Florens,” offered Ressig. One of Hafgan’s new informants had reported that Ressig was from a small town near Florens’ capital. A town that was likely already sacked by the advance forces.

  “We need to stop this. The army is leaking men like a barrel of water full of holes,” said Lieutenant Itham. A portly, red-faced, pock-nosed blacksmith-turned-soldier, Itham enjoyed stating the obvious whenever he could get a word in. Itham was one of only three lieutenants in the room, including Hafgan. Apparently, each was in charge of a ‘special’ force, and somehow merited presence in these meetings. Itham led a group of sappers. Terence was a lieutenant of an engineer corps, specializing in siege equipment. And Hafgan was in charge of the Wasmer, though he was not certain how they merited being called a special force. Probably because nobody else wanted to speak to the fuzz-faced goats.

  “Once retrieved by our outriders, I might suggest lashing the career soldier deserters and garnishing the wages of the conscripts,” said Ressig, massaging his temples.

  “No. Once we retrieve them, the career soldiers will be stripped, dragged, and beheaded, if they’re still breathing. The conscripts will be lashed, stripped, and forced to march barefoot in units across the army. The men shall see the price of desertion,” said Fitra as he leaned forward, lips pressed to his steepled fingers. Being dragged was an old method of punishment in the Ardian military. Unfortunate victims were stripped and tied to horses near the front of the army, usually by their feet, with their free limbs being bound tightly. Such men were then dragged over the rough roads and terrain, unable to protect their bodies from the ravages of the journey. Even on a hard-packed road, like the one between Rostane and Florens, the dirt and gravel were enough to shred a man’s skin and flesh to nothing. A stray, jagged rock could disembowel a man. There were few survivors of this practice, and those few were mercifully beheaded—the next morning.

  By design, the rest of the army had to both listen to the sounds of the dying men for hours and march through the gore—at least, through whatever wasn’t covered in dust—as a rather heavy-handed reminder of the price of desertion. This practice had not been used in over a hundred years, and was considered to be inhumane and brutal by modern standards.

  “Lord General, isn’t that a bit… harsh?” asked Captain Yanso, rubbing his veiny forearm with an oversized hand. Yanso was ostensibly Hafgan’s superior officer since Fitra’s promotion had come, though the career militant had only spoken three words to him in the last weeks. The ‘Fuck you goat’, in that case, had been punctuated with a fake lunge designed to make Hafgan flinch. It hadn’t been successful.

  “I’ve got a war to win. And I’m not going to win it by hemorrhaging spoiled soldiers between here and Florens. And beyond, as is likely the case. No, His Grace Duke Penton authorized me to use whatever means necessary to make this march a success, and I intend to do so,” said General Fitra, speaking slowly and meeting each captain’s eyes in turn.

  General Fitra’s proclamation was greeted with silence, the twenty or so staff officers who were present either being stunned by his brutality or unwilling to voice their approval. Considering most of these men knew only peace-time, Hafgan suspected the latter. The fact of the matter was, the dragging would be effective. In the military accounts that Hafgan had read and memorized during his training as a Haearn Doethas, death by dragging had had a near-perfect success rate in deterring desertion just so long as the morale problem was not extreme (which could le
ad to a revolt). More merciful leaders had also tied the rope around the neck of the victim, allowing them to die of either a broken neck or strangulation. Not exactly painless, but a far stretch better than being slowly torn and flayed open by the ground.

  “Gentlemen, no need to stop speaking on my behalf,” said Savant Iolen, pushing into the farmhouse. Escorted, as always, by a pair of Wolf Knights. Lord Faris was not far behind with his own retinue.

  “You are late, High Strategist,” said General Fitra, eying the learned man and the duke’s advisor with irritation. Iolen looked anything but repentant.

  “Certainly, you qualified men of war need not wait upon our presence to discuss the trivialities of a march. With your expertise, we have been able to travel fully five miles per day!”

  “Shall we neglect training the conscripts and simply send them into battle to be slaughtered? Or, should we instead ensure we are prepared to fight a battle?” retorted Fitra.

  “Of course. Speed is not a factor here, though we have an enemy army marching with great haste to Florens at this moment,” said Iolen, slumping easily into a vacant chair.

  “An outnumbered, ill-prepared army! Lead by a trumped-up old woman. High Strategist, perhaps if you were to share an alternate strategy instead of showing up at random and simply insulting—”

  “Apologies, General.” Lord Faris, ever the peacekeeper, had cut off Fitra before he said anything he might regret. “We were tending to separate matters of national security. If you wouldn’t mind calling this meeting to an early close, there are urgent matters that we must address.”

  “Fine. Officers, off to your units. We’ve not much longer to get this rabble into some semblance of a fighting force, so continue with the same training every morning,” sighed Fitra, glaring askance at Iolen.

  “Captain Yanso, please stay for a moment. We may have a special assignment for you and your men,” said Faris, taking up a comfortable chair as one of the captains moved.

  The officers filed out, still apparently stunned by Fitra’s pronouncement. Hafgan lingered as long as possible in hopes of overhearing Yanso’s assignment, but was eventually forced to leave his corner with the rest of the staff. Outside, the officers huddled together in small clusters, discussing the pressing matters of the day—none so important as the dragging. He inched toward the group with Ressig, the only officer who afforded him even a hint of respect. Hafgan stood just outside the circle of officers.

  “–must we follow the orders? These are people, Ressig. Like you and me. They’re just scared.”

  “Is there a way to fake it? Or to save these men? Can we instruct the outriders to ignore any deserters that they find?”

  “No, that would be treason, disobeying a direct command and countermanding our general.” This from Ressig, to whom the other captains clearly deferred.

  “There must be a way—”

  “Eight of those are my men—”

  “I can’t do it!”

  “We must follow orders, gentlemen. I don’t like it any more than you do, but this is war. Blood will be spilled. Any of us here may be wounded or killed in the coming battles. At least this bloodshed might serve some purpose, keeping this army together and perhaps reducing our casualties overall.” Ressig was firm, though his eyes were clouded. A man of reluctant duty.

  Hafgan tried to push into the circle, and when two of the captains realized it was the Wasmer, they hastily parted. Suddenly, he was in the group with plenty of room to spare. None of the captains made eye contact with him, save Ressig.

  “Sir, I have a suggestion.” Enunciation. He needed to focus in order to be treated seriously, particularly by the golden officers.

  “I’ve a suggestion for you, goat. Why don’t you go fuck…”

  Ressig cut off Captain Roneth—the cavalry commander—with an abrupt wave of his hand. Roneth stunk of horse, as always. “Wasmer, let’s hear it.” It wasn’t necessarily deference that Ressig gave him, but it was far better than Hafgan was used to getting.

  “Spare the dragging men the pain. Tie them by the neck. A broken neck or strangulation be… is much quicker a way to go. Give them three mouthfuls of devil’s claw root to numb the pain, as well. Or, slit their wrists while binding them—up-and-down the arm, not across. The effect will be the same for preventing deserters, and it will be a mercy compared to death by dragging.”

  The group of men eyed Hafgan, not sure what to make of his advice. Ressig, however, gave him a wan, tired smile.

  “Excellent idea, Wasmer. It shall be done as you suggest. Ithum, procure the devil’s claw root from the quartermaster. We will cut the wrists. Less painful and far quicker than strangulation.” Ressig nodded in respect and Hafgan returned the gesture.

  He headed back to the Wasmer camp then, his only consolation being that he’d managed to spare some condemned men a day or more of agony.

  ---

  To cap off Hafgan’s day, there was more trouble.

  As Hafgan neared the Wasmer camp, set purposefully a mile or so east of the main army in an effort to reduce racial tensions, he saw that a crowd had formed, jostling each other and raising their voices in both the Wasmer and traders’ tongues. In Hafgan’s experience, crowds rarely gathered for something positive, and the tone of this one was certainly aggressive. Getting closer, he heard a great shout—a war cry, really—and sprinted the last hundred yards through the bushy grasslands.

  In a brief gap through the bodies, he could see a melee.

  Shouting ignored orders as he shoved through the crowd, Hafgan managed to reach the front just as a body was hurtled at him, tumbling hard into his shins. He crouched down.

  “Paston?”

  The Wasmer’s mostly-shaved face was matted with the blood pouring out of his nose, and one eye was already swelling shut. He seemed confused, and his eyes widened with the recognition of his commanding officer.

  “S-sir,” he slurred through cracked lips.

  “What be happening here?” Hafgan demanded, surveying the scene before him. At least eight Wasmer were fighting. Brawling, was more like it. One of his soldiers knelt on the chest of a downed man, pummeling the fallen man in the face. Another was ramming his shoulder into the stomach of a tall Wasmer. The taller soldier wrapped one arm around his attacker’s midsection and punched him repeatedly in the ribs. Two more were engaged in a cautious fistfight, maneuvering around the body of a fallen man as a barrier. A couple of tents had toppled and a brazier was on its side, its smoldering contents spread across the makeshift field of battle.

  “Well, there be a disagreement.” Paston coughed, splattering some blood on Hafgan’s formerly pristine Rostanian uniform. Hafgan frowned, both at the words and the blood. He took an inexplicable pride in the condition of his military garb.

  “What disagreement?” Hafgan growled, watching the fight. At least no one had resorted to using weapons.

  “Um… One of Siarl’s traditionalists be goading one of our men. Called him budredda. Started fight,” mumbled Paston, rolling painfully to his knees and wiping his face on his sleeve. The inevitable break between the traditionalists and his misfits. Hafgan was just surprised it hadn’t started sooner.

  “Who struck first?”

  “I… can’t say, Lieutenant.” So, one of his men, then.

  Hafgan took a deep breath, prepared to shout more orders when one red-headed Wasmer yanked a spear from an onlooker and plunged it into the back of a fallen man.

  The crowd immediately hushed, and the fighters who were close enough to see what had happened also froze. Hafgan, however, did not hesitate. He launched himself forward, covering the space in an instant and knocking the brawlers aside. His fist slammed into the side of the killer’s head, intercepting his spear as he fell, its tip dripping with the blood of the fallen. He immediately reversed the tip so that it was brushing the killer’s neck.

  “Stop this at once!” he roared, his voice carrying through to the remaining men who were fighting. They slowly came to a st
op, and the gathered mass of Wasmer was near silent. The sudden silence was tangible—a taut line just waiting to break.

  “Check on him,” Hafgan said to one of his misfits. The soldier jumped to action, rolling over the fallen man. The body belonged to Elan, the hot-headed, well-spoken youngling who followed Hafgan around and idolized him as if he were Traisen reborn.

  “Dead, sir,” said the soldier quietly. The words were absorbed by the gathered men like a plague.

  Most soldiers refused to meet Hafgan’s gaze as he looked around, glancing away like children who’d been caught stealing sweetmeats from the kitchen. One young soldier—a traditionalist messenger boy from Rostane named Elgin, if Hafgan recalled correctly—was openly weeping at this point. Another one, one of his misfits, was vomiting quietly behind a short shrub. Siarl, however, stood tall with his arms crossed, staring squarely at Hafgan who stolidly returned the gaze. Neither of them broke eye contact until the man on the ground squirmed, pressing against the tip of Hafgan’s spear.

  “What be your name, soldier?” Hafgan demanded of the killer. The red-haired man twisted slightly, looking to Siarl. Siarl didn’t respond, continuing to watch Hafgan, surrounded as he was by his traditionalist followers. The man on the ground turned his head back to Hafgan, glaring at him up the shaft of the spear.

  “Why did you kill this man?” Hafgan spoke slowly and with as much conviction as he could manage. The man spat a reddish blob to one side. He must have bitten his tongue when Hagan had hit him. Hafgan applied a slight pressure, the tip of the spear digging into the man’s neck, sounding out a slight pop as the tip just punctured the man’s skin. Blood of the victim mixed with the blood of the killer. “Speak.”

  “You are fucking budredda scum! You spurn our traditions, our lifestyle, our very race! To do what… dally with humans? You are no longer Wasmer, and you will never even be human. You are a boil to be lanced from the body of the Wasmer!” The red-haired man’s voice, speaking his native tongue, carried in the dying light, and the hate was as contagious as a plague. The gathered Wasmer began muttering their angry assent, particularly those near Siarl. The traditionalists. Meanwhile, the assimilators were clumped together, eying the crowd with a wary fear and expecting to be attacked, run out of camp, or killed like poor Elan.